By halftime, the Banshees led six to four, but I barely cared.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer called as the players retreated to rest. “At this time, we invite you to observe a moment of silence for our fallen champion.”
The arena lights dimmed again. Draven’s image reappeared, larger this time, his smile frozen in eternal youth.
I bowed my head with the rest of the crowd, but my mind raced. The Ripper sat directly behind me, close enough toreach out and grab me if he wanted. Close enough to whisper accusations. Close enough to end this charade with six inches of steel. And the culprits he hunted sat right in front of him.
The silence stretched.
And stretched.
And then, impossibly, I felt something warm against my ankle.
Silas.
My familiar had made his way into the arena, creeping through the shadows to make it to me. His small form pressed against my leg, offering what comfort he could while maintaining his concealment. That or reassurance he’d change in an instant and tear into the Ripper, should it be warranted. Silas was typically far too grumpy for soothing, but I appreciated the sentiment.
The lights returned. The second half began.
What had started as celebration now felt like endurance. Like surviving. The Banshees extended their lead as the Silverbolts fought back desperately.
“Match point,” Vitoria said as a golden veil spawned near the center platform.
Both teams converged. Bodies flew. Magic crackled. The veil danced between a dozen reaching hands, refusing to commit to any single player.
Then Elena Brightwater cast a spell of bright light—a spell which probably helped witches grow plants—and for one impossible moment, woman and light merged, flowing as one entity toward the portal.
The crowd held its breath.
The veil passed through.
“Howling Banshees win! Ten to nine! Your champions hold their title with an iron grip!”
Purple light exploded across the arena one final time. The crowd erupted in celebration, people jumping, hugging, screaming their joy into the night.
I tried to join in, but when I turned to smile at Vitoria, I caught sight of the Ripper’s beautifully brutal face.
He wasn’t watching the celebration.
He was watching me.
“We should go,” Calder said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise. “It’ll take forever to get out if we wait.”
“Good idea,” I said far too quickly.
Vitoria looked between us, reading the tension like a book. “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
We gathered our things, trying to appear casual, unhurried. Just three friends heading home after a good game.
But as we filed toward the aisle, I felt the Ripper’s eyes tracking our every move. He was supposed to hunt monsters that lived in the Ash, the space between cities that could never heal after a Burning. But instead, he tracked a different monster.
The truth sat in my chest like a blade, sharp and cold and perfectly hidden. Twenty-seven years I’d carried it. Twenty-seven years of inverse runes and careful lies and blood magic that bound me to shadows.
The Phoenix line wasn’t dead.
She was leaving the arena, following Calder’s broad shoulders through the crowd, pretending to care about Nexus scores with a nymph at her back. The mark had been there when I was born. A crescent moon of flame along my left shoulder blade, no bigger than a child’s palm. Beautiful, my parents had called it. A blessing.
They’d died for that blessing.
